The Price You Must Pay
by bonsoirgrenouille
Summary: Arthur is bored and unsatisfied with his life. But what happens when an archaic little book changes all that? Rating will raise as chapters go on


**Greetings and salutations, all! I'm back from my long hiatus, hold your applause! So NiNO will update as soon as I work through my writer's block for it, okay? I swear I won't abandon it! But anyway, here's a little something I thought up while watching The Sword in the Stone the other day. Don't worry guys, it has nothing to do with the story of King Arthur or anything. Soo yeah, I stayed up pretty late writing this because I got so excited and well, you know how feverish inspiration is. I hope you enjoy so far.**

**I don't own Hetalia, but that'd be sweet beans.**

Arthur James Kirkland had never particularly cared for visiting his odd relatives in the countryside; he had only ever really liked the house. A large old thing built in the Victorian age, it had beautiful architecture. It was a pale purple, an unusual colour for a house, yes, but that was one of the things Arthur liked about it. It contrasted very nicely with the emerald green ivy that crawled up one side, wrapping around some of the white pillars out front, hugging them in its green embrace. They didn't have nice big houses like that in London, where he lived with his mum and six brothers in a small flat. No, he didn't particularly like the countryside, but he did love that house.

Did. Past-tense.

As a child he had spent his summers exploring its many rooms and corridors, having fanciful dreams that maybe he would find a secret room and fall into a wonderful adventure in a magical far-off land. He was fearless, even exploring the dark basement's crawlspace. It was pitch black in the dark hole, and on windy days it sounded as if mournful moans came from it. No one knew how far back it went because no one had dared venture inside before. His older brothers had told him that hundreds of years ago, a mad Earl had lived in the house and slaughtered travelers passing by, tossing them into the crawlspace when he was done with his cruel torture. This didn't scare Arthur as they had hoped, and instead one day the young Brit took it upon himself to explore it.

Torch in hand, Arthur had crawled into it. It went so far that the beam of his torch didn't illuminate the back as he had expected; he kept crawling onwards. There was nothing interesting that he had seen, just a lot of dust and some dead crunchy bugs that he avoided with the utmost care. He had been crawling for awhile. His elbows were starting to get scraped and his back hurt, and still he hadn't come upon anything interesting. Not a single skeleton. He sighed, making a tight turn to make his way back when his torch flickered and went out. He could have sworn that he had replaced the batteries just the other day. He froze, holding his breath. Arthur had never had a fear of the dark before, but this dark was different, not at all like the comforting deep grey he was used to. It was oppressive and invasive pitch dark, pressing against him; he could feel it in his eyes, against his skin, in his mouth. He choked on the dark veil that seemed to enshroud him and his heart started to pound in his chest. Arthur could feel the pounding in his ears and all he thought was _get out get out get out _but he couldn't, couldn't escape, and he laid there frozen in fear, hyperventilating, tasting the dark all around him, all through him. Then the wind started. It was a howling wail within the crawlspace and Arthur screamed, squeezing his eyes shut though that did no good. His screams of terror mingled with the howling winds and no one heard him. As soon as the wind died down his limbs seemed to gain movement again. Arthur scrambled out of the suddenly claustrophobic crawlspace, scraping his knees, elbows, and the palms of his hands along the way. He left his torch behind.

Arthur had a chronic fear of the dark since that day, and he no longer had a desire to explore the house or go poking his nose where it didn't belong. As the years passed and he grew older, his dreams of overthrowing the reign of a cruel, icy queen and reestablishing the rightful feline monarch faded. He knew the house like the back of his hand from his young days of exploring, but he didn't love it like he used to. Time changes things and experience shapes us, and it most certainly shaped Arthur.

He was older now, already seventeen. Though before he would relish the seclusion of the large Victorian farmhouse now he only saw it as a bother, as he had no cell service out in the middle of nowhere and he couldn't talk to Francis, his frenemy. He would never call him more than that, though it was obvious to his other acquaintances Alfred and Matthew that he was more than such.

He loved that the place had a lot of space because he wasn't crowded in with his other brothers, but now if he ever felt claustrophobic at home he could just spend a night with Francis or one of the others. He often did, so once again the Victorian summer home had lost another piece of its charm for the Brit.

The one thing it could not lose however, was its beauty in appearance; Arthur still loved the way the house looked, the way the old wood flooring felt underneath his feet, smoothed and weathered by all the years it had spent with other feet walking over it. He wondered about those feet sometimes. Had they danced through the kitchen, or perhaps ran excitedly down a flight of stairs on a chill Christmas morning? He loved houses with history, so of course he couldn't ever hate it.

But it had become so familiar now, and at seventeen Arthur James Kirkland had better things to do than spend the summer lying about his eccentric aunt's house, no matter how beautiful it was.

_Here I am_, he thought sulkily as his mother pulled up to the house through the smooth clay driveway.

"Well, here ya are," his mum smiled over at Jamie, one of his many brothers, in the passenger side seat. "Out you go, get your bags!"

After hours of driving, Arthur couldn't _wait _to get out of the car and away from his annoying other brothers he had the misfortune of having to sit next to, Peter and Osbourne. He threw open the car door and went to the trunk to get his suitcase. Peter and Osbourne had already jumped out of the car, shrieking and laughing, shoving over each other to get their bags first. They were both Arthur's younger brothers, Peter being younger than Osbourne. Osbourne was being particularly vicious, as he could be on occasion, and he shoved Peter to the ground and grabbed his bag, laughing as he ran up to the house. Peter was crying, but he picked himself back up, grabbed his bag, and chased after the other yelling. He was the youngest of the six, and he had learned to handle himself quite well with five older brothers.

"You git, get back here! That was mean and and you should apologize!" he cried, Osbourne running away and still laughing like crazy.

"In your dreams, tart!" he stuck his tongue out at Peter.

"I am not a tart!"

"Yes you are!"

"Am not!"

"Are so!"

"Well I don't care what you call me! Tarts are delicious, especially the berry kind!"

"Oi, Ozzy, Peter!" Jamie yelled. He was the second oldest of the six, only a year older than Arthur, and with Scotty already moved out of their small London flat (thank god), he took it upon himself to try and control the younger ones. "Stop running around and get your arses back over here!" They paused in their chase, looked at each other for a moment, and then dutifully walked back over to the car, next to the oldest of the youngest three, William. He was rather quiet.

"I hope you all have fun with your aunt," their mum smiled, though Arthur could see the tired look around her eyes. He knew why she had always shipped them off here for the summer holidays. The truth was that since dad had left them, she had been holding on by a thread trying to raise six boys. The summer was when she made all of her money, which slowly drained throughout the rest of the year until they were dirt poor again by the time the next summer rolled around.

"We will, mum," they all chorused. Jamie, William and Arthur got their bags out of the trunk and they all lined up, bags and suitcases in hand.

She hugged each of them in turn, then stepped back to face her boys, the stern look of an English mother on her face. "And you had better behave, alright? If you don't, I've given your aunt permission to kill ya and you'll be dead before you hit the ground. I won't bat an eyelash."

"Yes, mum," they all chorused again. It was the same every summer, and even the younger ones, Peter and Osbourne, were already well familiar with it.

Their mother smiled again with a short nod. "Well, do have fun then. I'll be back for you in a few weeks. Mind your manners and don't complain. Us Kirkland's have to carry on." And then she got into her car and drove away, leaving her five sons standing, waving goodbyes in the clay driveway until she was out of sight.

When she was gone, Jamie slung his bag over his shoulder and started up to the house. Peter and Osbourne saw this, taking it as a sign that they didn't have to wave anymore either, and they ran past him up to the house, throwing open the door and rushing inside, the echoes of their shrieking laughter still hanging on the warm summer air. William had left into the house far before the others, doing so silently as he did most things. Arthur sighed, following after Jamie.

Their aunt was a strange woman. She was from their father's side of the family and you could tell because she had the same striking blue eyes and freckles that he had, the same beautiful blue eyes that Scotty, William, and Peter had. Jamie and Arthur had the grass green eyes of their mother's side of the family, and Osbourne had brown eyes. No one knew how, but Arthur thought he knew. Telling signs were when his parents' marriage started to go downhill after Osbourne's birth.

Their aunt claimed she didn't know where her brother had run off to, but she had always loved her nephews and helped out her sister-in-law as much as she could. Arthur had always liked her; she didn't bother them too much and she didn't claim to understand children (though she truly did understand them) and didn't treat them as lesser people as most adults did. She treated them all, even Peter who was only eight, as equals.

Arthur closed the front door behind him, trudging upstairs and setting his things in his room. After Peter was born he'd had to share his room with William, whose bag was already neatly placed on his bed. It irked Arthur that he had to share of course, but he couldn't complain too much. He could have been stuck with Jamie, or _worse_, Scotty. But thank god Scotty wasn't around anymore.

The blonde dropped his suitcase on the floor and flopped onto his bed, pulling his phone out and peering at it. No signal, but he had a few messages that he hadn't answered from that morning.

Francis: bon matin, mon lapin! I hope you have a nice stay in that stuffy old house! Think of me in the shower, oui? 3

Alfred: yo Iggy, I can't find my guitar! Did I leave it at your place that time? If Ozzy cut the strings I swear…

Francis: me again~! I forgot to tell you that when I say think of me in the shower, I meant while you masturbate. Au revoir, happy wanking~ ;3

"…" Arthur sighed, setting his phone on the night stand. _Idiots. _He sighed, rolling over to curl into a ball, closing his eyes to try and get some of the sleep he was deprived of in the drive there, making sure to leave the light on even though it was only midafternoon.

**So yeah I know, nothing interesting has happened so far. It's only the first chapter, what do you want from me? Anywaaay, I would love reviews. I may have been gone awhile, but that hasn't changed, haha. Reviews would be fabulous, but not necessary. And if any of you were curious:**

**Scotty is 22 and he is Scotland**

**Jamie is 18 and he is Ireland**

**Arthur is 17 and obviously England**

**William is 14 and is Wales**

**Osbourne is 12 and is Australia (get it, they call him Ozzy? Ozzy = Aussie remember *shot for bad pun*)**

**Peter is 8 and is Sealand**

**Translations**

**Bon matin, mon lapin – Good morning, my rabbit (French)**


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